STARVING.
"HOR," said little Lettie meditatively, on the afternoon of the
following day, "don't you wonder what's become of Ailie?"
Hor had just returned from his daily ramble in search of employment.
Little hope had he now of finding regular work—he had tried so long
in vain; but still he contrived to earn a few pence in various ways,
and those who had once employed him did not soon forget his honest
look. To-day he had returned earlier than usual, and, after depositing
his earnings with his mother, went out into the yard. There he found
Lettie, seated on a corner of the broken-down wall, overlooking the
three little ones, who made high glee with a mud puddle near at hand.
"Mother says nothin' more ain't been seen of her," said Hor. "Queerest
thing I ever heard of. Seems as if some'at wrong must have happened to
the poor little lass."
"Father was askin' about her this mornin'," said Lettie. "He says he
can't do no more. Mother thinks some one must ha' taken her off."
"Don't seem much sense in that, neither," said Hor. "She hadn't on a
scrap o' clothes as would fetch sixpence. More likely—well, I don't
know—but maybe it's a fancy o' the little thing herself. P'raps she's
gone off, thinkin' she'll find her mother. I shouldn't wonder."
"Hor," said Lettie deliberately, "Ailie wasn't asleep, but only
pretendin', when father talked o' the work'us for her."
"Wasn't she?" cried Hor.
"I'm sure I see her open one eye, an' shut it up again tight; an' she
was cryin' after, when you all thought she was a-sleepin'."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Hor.
"I didn't like. Poor Ailie! Hor, I wouldn't like the work'us," said
Lettie. "Isn't it a dreadful cruel place?"
Hor whistled. "Not as I knows on. Folks say we'd ought to think
ourselves well off, to have it to go to. But 'tain't pleasant to be
a-livin' on charity."
"What's charity?" asked Lettie, with wondering eyes. "Is it some sort
o' nasty victuals?"
"Victuals—no. Livin' on charity means—means—why, it's same thing as
being a beggar."
"You ain't a beggar, nor Ailie wasn't, neither."
"She's one now, poor little lass, if I ain't much mistaken," said Hor.
"'Tain't likely she'll get much to eat by any other means, except
a-begging, wherever she be."
"Is mother a beggar?" asked Lettie.
"Mother! No!" cried Hor. "What's put into your head to ask such a
question?"
"Nor father, neither?" inquired Lettie.
"No, nor none of us, nor never will be, so long as father 'n I have an
arm to work."
"Nor isn't I a beggar?" asked Lettie, reaching the climax towards which
she had been ascending.
"No more than the rest on us," said Hor.
Lettie nestled up a little closer to Hor's ragged jacket. "Hor," she
whispered softly, "didn't ye hear what father said yesterday—?"
"Well?" said Horatio.
"About other folks' children," said Lettie, with an effort. "If father
got tired o' me, an' wasn't to want to have me no longer, I'd have to
be a beggar, then, wouldn't I?"
"Likely he'll get tired o' you!" cried Hor. "I'd work for ye then! He
didn't say nought o' the kind, though."
"He did say some'at about never doin' it again, an' he said he'd give
way to mother once, but he wasn't goin' to twice," said Lettie. It was
strange to hear that tiny fair-haired child discussing the matter so
calmly. "An' he did say once, when mother gave a bit to Ailie, that
'twas taken out o' his own children's mouths."
"You're one of us. 'Tain't like Ailie. She's a stranger, an' you're
every inch our sister. Don't think o' that again! Father didn't mean
nothing; he's only bothered an' worried, an' don't hardly know what
he's about. I say, that ain't Ailie, sure!"
A little figure, crouching in the shadow of the wall, attracted his
attention, and he made a sudden bound forward, but before he could
reach the spot, it had vanished, and after-searching proved useless. He
gave up at length, and almost ascribed the whole to fancy.
Yet it was Ailie herself that he had seen—Ailie, after a second long
day of concealment and fasting, venturing at length to creep out in
search of food. She felt very weak and craving, but she had not dared
to appear earlier, lest John Forsyth should find her and take her off
to the workhouse that night. The more feeble grew her little frame, the
stronger waxed her dread of going thither—unreasoning childish dread,
but none the less real for that.
Hearing Horatio's exclamation, and seeing him run towards her, she had
fled with all speed, and rushed round the side of the house, and into
the street, before he saw the direction she had taken.
There, without delaying a moment, though with shaking limbs and heaving
breath, she hurried along, and never stopped till she found herself at
the entrance of the broad neighbouring thoroughfare, with its handsome
shops; its plate glass windows, full of dresses, bonnets, and ribbons;
its bakers and confectioners, more tempting still; its strings of cabs
and carriages; and its crowds of well-dressed foot-passengers on the
pavement.
Ailie had never yet known what it was to beg. But now she felt so
hungry and weak and faint, that she longed to ask the passers-by to
give her something, as she stood in a little sheltered corner, close
to a shop-window. Sometimes she tried to begin to say, "Please give
me a penny," but each time the words seemed to stick and swell in her
throat, and no sound came.
If only she could rest somewhere; she was so tired—oh, so tired and
thirsty. There was a drinking-fountain not far distant, and she dragged
her failing limbs there, and drank some of the fresh water out of the
tin cup, but that made her feel more hungry than ever. If poor mother
could but come to help her! Ailie felt so utterly alone. Nobody in
all the world to care for her, except mother, away for two months in
jail—nobody else except the Forsyths, and she dared not go near them,
for they would only send her to the workhouse. Ailie was so desolate
that she wanted to cry, but somehow tears would not come, and the dry
sobs which she could not check made her feel worse and worse.
A baker's shop stood just across the way with such tempting beautiful
wonderful loaves in the window Ailie thought that to have one of those
loaves would be perfect happiness. She would care for nothing else
in all the world then. Such an unhappy-looking child passed at that
moment, dressed in white muslin, and with two great buns in her hand.
How could she look unhappy when she had two whole buns of her own?
Ailie did wonder at the sight. Not that she wanted buns herself. She
only wanted some bread—ever so dry, ever so hard, ever so little—just
to check this burning terrible hunger. And, leaning against the wall,
Ailie sobbed again tearless sobs of anguish.
"What's the matter?" asked a voice, and Ailie looked up. A little
girl of about her own age stood in front of her, dressed in a pretty
pink frock, with a straw hat and one long black feather across it,
and delicately-gloved hands, which were folded over a tiny terrier
lying asleep in her arms. She gazed wonderingly at Ailie. "What's the
matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"
"No," said Ailie.
"Or have you spilt some milk, or broken a jug? That's like the poor
little girls in story-books," added the child to herself.
"I'm so hungry," whispered Ailie, hanging her head.
"Why don't you go home to tea?" asked the little girl.
"I've nowhere to go," said Ailie, in a choked voice.
"Why, where do you live?"
"I've been under the stairs all night, an' they wants to send me to the
work'us—and, oh! I don't want to go," sobbed Ailie, with catches in her
breath.
"Won't they give you anything to eat?" asked the other child, gravely.
"There's nobody. Father's dead, an' mother—an' mother—"
"Is your mother dead too?"
"They've put her in jail."
"Jail! Is that prison? Why she must be very wicked if they put her
there," said the little girl. "What did she do?"
The shame of her mother's disgrace came over Ailie, as she noted the
little girl's dainty boots draw back a pace.
"Mother was starvin', an' father dyin' for want; an' she took-she took
a loaf," said Ailie.
"That was stealing," said the little girl decisively. "It's very wicked
indeed to steal, and I don't wonder they put her in jail. Everybody's
punished that steals, you know. But who takes care of you?"
[Illustration: "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a
beating?"]
"Miss Josie! Now I never!" exclaimed a respectably-dressed attendant,
coming up, hot and breathless, from a gossip with an acquaintance. "As
sure as I turn my eyes, you're in mischief. Talking to a dirty little
street girl, coming from no one knows where."
"She's starving, nurse," said Josie.
"They're every man, woman, and child of them starving all the year
round, if you'll believe them," said nurse contemptuously. "Miss Josie,
come on this minute."
"I wish I had my penny," sighed Josie. "I do wish I hadn't bought that
doll. Nurse, couldn't the little girl come home for my other penny—and
wouldn't that buy her a roll, and keep her from starving?"
"No, indeed," said nurse wrathfully. "Telling strange beggar-children
to come to our house, indeed! How d'ye know she isn't just getting over
the scarlet fever, or small-pox, or anything else?"
"Are you, little girl?" asked Josie, in straightforward style.
"I ain't been ill—I'm only a-starving," said Ailie.
"Then you'd better go home and get your parents to feed you," said
nurse. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."
"She hasn't got any parents—at least, one's dead and her mother's in
prison," cried Josie, getting into a passion. "Nurse, do lend me a
penny."
"I'm not going to encourage them beggars," said nurse resolutely.
"Mother in prison! I dare say she is, and the child's likely enough to
follow her there. Miss Josie, if you don't come on this moment—"
A strong hand on Josie's wrist spoke more forcibly than words could do.
Sobbing and struggling, the little girl was drawn away, and Ailie saw
her last hope disappear.
She gave up after that, and leant against the wall, watching the
passers-by, as in a dream, no longer looking for help. And presently,
as the dusk gathered round her, she turned homewards, staggering feebly
in the gray shadows close to the walls, and thus escaping observation.
She had formed no plans where to go, and she was past all power of
thought. Only in her suffering she shrank from the lonely misery of her
retreat under the staircase, and when she entered the house, she went
slowly upward, step by step, until she reached the landing where Esther
Forsyth had discovered her three nights before. There again, in the
same spot, she crouched down, sheltered as before from observation by
the increasing darkness.
No one would be likely to remark her presence in passing. But, whether
discovered or not, Ailie knew nothing of it, for she sank into
insensibility, and lay there—a mere little heap of rags, covering a
small bony form—in the corner of the landing.
[Illustration]